


Untitled

by ShariDeschain



Category: Game of Thrones RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Drunk Sex, F/F, Gratuitous Smut, comic-con is a crazy thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 18:06:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4715504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShariDeschain/pseuds/ShariDeschain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If they ever asked her again about how it is to work with Natalie Dormer, she'd say: <i>it's beautiful. She tortures me.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Untitled

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Untitled](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3215741) by [Shari (ShariDeschain)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShariDeschain/pseuds/Shari). 



> \- I actually wrote this a year ago for an italian challenge but I was asked to translate it and I did it with pleasure because these two are illegal and they demand a fandom and who am I to deny something to them.  
> \- If you spot any mistake tell me and I'll give you ~~a smut ficlet~~ a cookie for it.

She has no idea of what time it is, she can't see any clock around and that morning she forgot to wear hers. The room is almost completely dark: the lights are off, but the television screen in the other room projects a blue halo through the door, creating strange games of shadows on the tangled sheets.

She can't even say exactly how she got here, lying on her back between sheets that don't belong to her, arms outstretched on the bed, nails sunk in the mattress, her back arched upward and her thighs tighten on both sides of a blonde head – the only thing in the room that she knows very well.

She has fuzzy memories of bright lights, evening dresses, and glasses of champagne brought to her lips again and again, so many times that even now, licking them, she can taste it. She only got drunk once before, a classic memorable first hangover, if only because it ended with the equally classic intimate embrace of the toilet seat.

At least she can say that she's improving on that aspect.

The tip of Natalie's tongue pushes against her clitoris, and her long hair tickles her legs, and Sophie let out a moan that is something between a sob and a laugh. One shouldn't think about toilet seats in moments like this, right? Definitely not. But then again, what _should_ you think about in moments like this? Romantic quotes, poems, profanity, fireworks? The first time she saw her naked, or how this would look like from the outside, with Natalie kneeling on the floor, the sweet curves of her shoulders and her buttocks in such contrast with the sharp angles of Sophie's knees? Or maybe one should not think at all?

Natalie caresses her bare legs with her hands, and whatever she's doing now with her tongue deserves her full attention, Sophie decides. She wants and maybe she _should_ scream, but she just can't. She clenches her fists, bites her lips. It's hot, it's very hot, and it's all just too much, and she wants to push her away and take a breath, but at the same time she has this funny feeling that if Natalie should ever decide to stop doing this thing she's doing, then she could die. Like, literally.

"Oh", she whispers out of breath.

It's not a good summary of the situation, but Natalie laughs, she laughs with her mouth still pressed against her, and Sophie thinks that maybe, after all, she won't survive anyway. She should've known. Someone should've warned her. She's been tricked into this.

"Oh? That's all you have to say?”, Natalie asks, lifting her head.

Sophie can only see her eyes now, and the first thought that crosses her mind is that it's really a curious thing, staring into the eyes of someone who's so blissfully nestled between your legs, with their lips still pressed against your vagina, and try to have a conversation with them.

Her second thought is that Natalie has stopped doing what she was doing and so now she will die, exactly as predicted.

"Don't stop!", she shouts, and it's an order. Even if there's that little note of desperation in her voice, it's a damn order and Natalie must obey. If you have to kill someone then you do it properly, what the heck. "Don't stop, don't stop, don't stop!"

Natalie laughs again, her breath cold against her warm skin, and Sophie shudders.

"Please", she moans.

"Please? Are you begging me?", Natalie asks. She's having fun. There is this spark in her eyes, a spark Sophie knows all too well, the same way she knows that she's smiling even if she can't see her mouth. Not good.

Sophie closes her eyes and lets her head fall back on the mattress. She hates her.

"I hate you."

Another laugh. She feels Natalie moving against her, and a hand sliding slowly between her legs.

"Oh yeah?"

Two fingers draw doodles on her sex.

"Yeah."

This is torture, Sophie thinks. Somewhere in the Geneva Convention there must be a paragraph that forbids all of this.

"Why?", Natalie asks conversationally, and with just one fingertip she starts caressing her wet folds, teasing her without going further than that.

"Because you are such a bitch."

There, she said it.

Natalie laughs again, then, in a fit of compassion, she slips two fingers inside her, making her wince and moan altogether.

 _"How on earth did I ended up here?"_ , Sophie asks herself again, while Natalie bends over her to torment her nipple with her goddamn tongue.

Aloud she just repeats: "Bitch."

 

*

 

They sit side by side in front of the audience, the cameras and the excited humming of the fans. The panel began about ten minutes ago, and the questions follow each other without any major surprises, but always accompanied by a chorus of laughter. Sophie laughs with the others, listens in silence to the answers of her colleagues, and tries to stay focused.

But her gaze keeps sliding toward the woman sitting beside her, and she knows she's doing it for too long now, but she also knows that there is very little she can do about it. As a general rule, it's quite hard to look away from Natalie, and Sophie has a vague feeling that she knows that perfectly well.

She often wonders about how genuine Natalie's attitude is, and how much of it is a pose. If she measures her gestures, her looks and her words even when she's not in the spotlight, or if, on the contrary, she doesn't have to try too much even when she is. She wonders if she's the only one to hear the difference in her accent when she says "my dear" to someone other than her, or whether everyone can hear that little note of affection and mischief hidden in the tiny space between a letter and the other, always reserved to Sophie and her alone.

It's difficult to have a crush on a person who works as an actress. It's even worse if you're learning that job too, and she's one of your teachers. There is a constant ambiguity that prevents her from setting clear limits between reality and imagination, and the result is that sometimes it seems all too absurd, be it true or just a figment of her imagination.

This is one of those times.

Natalie licks her lips with a concentrated expression on her face, and Sophie observes the action with narrowed eyes, imagining how it would be to kiss her right now, on the lips still wet with saliva, ignoring the fans, the colleagues and the cameras. She shouldn't get lost in fantasies like that at times like this, she knows, but it's not her fault if times like this are the most likely to lend themselves to her fantasies.

If they ever asked her again about how it is to work with Natalie Dormer, she'd say: _it's beautiful. She tortures me._

Under the table, Natalie's bare foot touches her ankle. She hasn't even looked at her sideways, but somehow she must have felt something. Because she's scary like that, yes.

With a little cough, Sophie turns her eyes away from her and secure it back on the audience, with a smile maybe just a little bit too forced. Unintentionally coping Natalie's gesture, she licks her lips. Natalie takes the microphone to answer a question from a fan, and at the same time she starts to play with the strap of Sophie's shoes, trapping it between her toes and pulling it slightly towards herself.

Sophie is forced to admire her ability at multitasking, how she manages to continue a speech in front of hundreds of people while secretly harassing a colleague.

Later, when Sophie will ask her what the hell was that all about, she already knows the answer will be something like _"Isn't it funnier, acting in front of an audience like the comic-con? What do you think?"_ , and not knowing what to say, she would just shake her head and call her a bitch, just to make her laugh.

 

*

 

Later doesn't come before that very night, when they return to their hotel after a long day of interviews. They are all pretty tired, Lena and Pedro are obviously looking for a little time for themselves, Maisie seems ready to collapse on the first horizontal surface available, and Sophie wouldn't refuse at all the idea to kick off her shoes and fall asleep in a tub full of boiling water and soft foam.

Instead they end up in the middle of a small party, holding champagne flute constantly filled, surrounded by people no one is really sure to know. Occupational hazard.

It's fun to walk across the room chatting with always new people, stumble into someone's else conversations by mistake, stay for an exchange of compliments, laugh at a joke already forgotten a few minutes later, then turn to someone else and start all over again.

Meanwhile the waiters keep filling her glass and no one feels guilty about it, because it's true that Sophie is barely of age, but after all it's only champagne. You have to try it to find out that getting drunk with champagne is actually a thing.

The result, however, is that when she reaches Natalie, Sophie's lightheaded and her tongue is slightly slurred but none of that keeps her from being cheerfully chatty. The result is that she puts her arms around Natalie's shoulders and tries to dance a slow waltz with her, laughing softly, their foreheads pressed against each other, Natalie's hands on her hips, her eyes too blue, her mouth too close. The results are embarrassing confessions whispered one after the other, all attributable to the typical drunk affectionate carelessness, except the last.

Natalie licks her lips again, and again Sophie stares, imagining once again to kiss her. To kiss away the last remnants of lipstick, redden her mouth with small bites, and then slide down, along the elegant curve of her throat, and then even lower, to the small breasts hidden by the high-necked dress, and finally to the hard nipples that Sophie already can feel pressing against her.

So far there is nothing strange or new, really, because she already had such thoughts about Natalie, although they usually prefer to manifest themselves in the privacy of her bedroom - where a hand can make up for the inevitable frustration that follows them - rather than attacking her in hotel rooms filled with people where she can't do anything else but blush, but that's not the point.

The point is that she leans forward, her face so impossibly close to Natalie's, and instead of a joke to change the subject, is the truth that she blows almost on her lips.

"I want to kiss you."

Simple like that. Because the simple things are the best. Not the easiest to get, of course, but the most honest. The less ambiguous. You get the idea.

 _"I want to kiss you"_ , she repeats mentally. Sounds good. Sounds sincere.

Natalie looks at her, her head tilted to the side. She doesn't seem surprised or embarrassed. Just curious.

"Really?", she asks a moment later.

Sophie, who's slowly realizing the difference between thinking and saying and the consequences of the second action ( _Natalie heard. Natalie knows. Natalie can't not hear/not know what she had just heard/known. Ohmygod what the fuck have I done_ ), stares at her wide-eyed and doesn't know what to do. Laugh like it was all a joke? Impossible, she no longer feels her own face. Run? And where? Pretending to be dead? That only works with bears.

"You really want to kiss me?", Natalie repeats again, slowly articulating each letters, and her lips are a weapon that Sophie would like very well to see used against herself but not exactly in this way.

She nods. When she doesn't know what to do, she nods. Because she read somewhere that a nod and a smile can save you from trouble in the ninety percent of the cases.

Natalie stares at her for another long moment, looking at her from below, eyelashes too black and eyes too vivid. Too much everything. This is the strongest feeling when she's with her. It's also a good way to describe it: _too much everything_.

"Let's go to my room", Natalie says.

Obviously this situation falls in the ten percent case study.

 

*

 

So they stagger on their heels up to Natalie's room. And at one point - Sophie doesn't know exactly when – they hold hands. It's more a smart way to avoid tripping over rugs and crashing to the ground than anything else, but it's still a nice thing to do, a romantic fantasy thingy and all of that.

Natalie argues for a few seconds with the key card, but she eventually manages to win the door. The inside is dark, except for the television where what at her first – and last – glance looks like a program on Italian cooking is airing without audio.

"I forgot to turn it off", Natalie says, as if it was needed. She still doesn't seem willing to turn it off, though.

Sophie stops on the doorstep, biting her bottom lip.

"Uhm, Nat-"

Again, she doesn't know what to say. _"Nat, what are we doing?", "Nat, I think I'm drunk?", "Nat, why your room is twice the size of mine?"_

Nat kicks off her shoes and pushes her against the door, effectively closing it with a soft thud and a satisfied peep from the electronic lock, then she crushes her mouth against hers.

"I wanted to kiss you too", she whispers.

"Oh."

"Yeah."

There are hands in her hair, now. And soon enough Natalie's fingers get caught up in the braided strands on the side of her head (Sophie immediately liked that hairstyle because of its similarity to Natalie's crazy one, but without the annoyance of having to shave half of her skull) but once she manages to get them free without pulling her hair too much, they slip down to caress her neck, reaching for the zip that closes her dress.

Sophie's hands, on the contrary, prefer not to take any specific initiative. They lazily hang at her sides, not knowing where else to go. In none of her mental scenarios Sophie had considered the idea that this could actually really happen, and now her body has this kind of block that is half panic and half even stronger panic.

"Sophie?", Natalie calls her after a while, stopping their kiss and straightening herself to look into her eyes (not an easy task, considering that Natalie is now without heels, and the height difference between them is even greater).

"Hm?", Sophie replies, licking her lips and thinking about how she should stop licking her lips because, seriously, this lips-licking business is getting ridiculously out of hands.

"You want to touch me, too?"

A few moments of silence.

"Yes."

_Yes. Yes. Yes. Ohmygod, yes._

Natalie smiles.

"Do it, then. Just as I am doing. "

And Sophie obeys. Eventually she would've gone there by herself, of course, but it's easier when they show you what to do.

She caresses her hips, feeling the soft silk of her dress slipping through her fingers, and then she cups her small and firm breasts into her hands, and while Natalie slowly pulls down the zipper of her dress, Sophie begins to slowly undo the buttons that close hers. When Natalie pushes her towards the bed she follows her one step at the time, trying at the same time not to fall and not to break their kiss, so when they reach it they're almost out of breath.

Natalie is able to get herself naked on their way there by slipping her dress down her legs and then walking over it without a second thought. Now she's wearing only a pair of black panties that stand out well enough against her pale skin.

Sophie would like to have the same ability to undress herself with such nonchalance, but the dress and the shoes are conspiring against her. The dress get stuck on her sides, forcing Natalie to quarrel with another hidden zipper, while the shoes simply refuse to be taken off without a struggle. Sophie remembers about the strap only after trying a half dozen kicks.

"Wait, wait, I have to-"

"I'll do it", Natalie says, pushing her down on the mattress (and Sophie wants to tell her that she needs to stop pushing her against all the furniture in the room, but the truth is that she doesn't mind it that much) and then she kneels between her legs with a grin that holds a lot of promises.

And Sophie, of course, let her do whatever she wants.

 

*  
 

Back to the present, Sophie sighs, then she opens her eyes and looks up to the white ceiling while the orgasm takes her hard enough to make it difficult for her to remember how to breath.

"Oh?", Natalie asks, raising her head again. Her forehead's sweaty and her lips redder, in her eyes there is the usual sparkle of amused malice.

"Oh", Sophie confirms with a soft laugh, loving her even more.

They stay like that for a while: Sophie sprawled on the bed, her face relaxed, her hair plastered to her temples, and Natalie kneeling on the carpet, softly gasping for breath, her arms around Sophie's legs and her chin resting against her stomach.

They could stay like that forever.

Instead Sophie pulls herself up on her elbows and sits in front of Natalie, who just has enough time to questioningly raise an eyebrow before Sophie grabs her by the arms and drags her on the bed only to push her under herself, trapping her between the mattress and her own body with a boldness that Sophie doesn't really recognize as her own but who cares.

"Let's see if you're really a good teacher", she says with a grin, before slipping downwards to kneel on the floor.


End file.
